Eighteen
RHONDA WILLIS PHONED the Twilight, a titty bar on New York Avenue, and asked to speak to the day bouncer working the door. Officially, the MPD no longer allowed its men and women to moonlight at such establishments, but many still did. The Twilight, with a history of shootings in its parking lot and cuttings inside the walls, used off-duty cops to pat down customers as they came through the entrance, as the sight of a badge on a chain was a deterrent to objection. A certain kind of police, the kind who liked action and fun, was naturally drawn to work that particular bar. The Twilight had the best dancers and music, and the most raucous crowd in town.
“Hey, Randy,” said Rhonda, speaking on her cell. “It’s Rhonda Willis, VCB.”
“Detective Willis.”
“You still down there, huh.”
Randolph Wallace was a twelve-year veteran, still in uniform, married with two children. Home life bored him, and he avoided it. Instead, when he wasn’t on the MPD clock, he worked a few shifts a week at the Twilight. He drank free and sometimes had relations with the club’s dancers.
“Yeah, you know,” said Wallace.
“I need an address on a dancer you got named Star. She stays with a girl name of Darcia. Cell number, too, if you can.”
Wallace said nothing.
“It’s in connection with a murder investigation,” said Rhonda.
“This ain’t really right,” said Wallace. “I got to work with these people, Detective.”
“What, you want me and my partner to come down there and get it?” said Rhonda with a small laugh, just to keep things friendly. “Wonder how much cocaine and smoke is trading hands in those bathrooms as we speak. All that sex for money, too. We could get the folks in Morals involved, that’s what you want.”
“Detective —”
“I’ll hold on while you get that for me.”
A few minutes later, Rhonda had the address and cell number for Shaylene Vaughn, whose stage name was Star, and the full name of Darcia Johnson and the number of her cell.
“Thank you, Randy. Be safe.” Rhonda ended the call.
“Did you just threaten a fellow police officer?” said Ramone.
“He doesn’t need me to hurt him,” said Rhonda. “He gonna fuck up his marriage and his career his own self, working in that place. I just don’t know what people are thinking sometimes.”
They were parked near Barney Circle. Rhonda got onto the Sousa Bridge and drove over the Anacostia River into Far Southeast.
The address provided by Randolph Wallace was on the 1600 block of W Street, near Galon Terrace. Ramone and Rhonda Willis parked and walked by neighborhood kids on their bikes and young women sitting on concrete steps, holding babies and talking. Some teenage males and men in their twenties slowly drifted as the two police officers got out of their car. Ramone walked by a young man wearing a black “Stop Snitchin” T-shirt who was holding the hand of a little boy. The shirts, popular in the D.C. area and in Baltimore, were an explicit warning to those citizens who were thinking of giving information to police.
“Nice message to send the kid,” said Ramone.
“Mm-huh,” said Rhonda.
They entered a three-story apartment building of brick and glass and went up an open stairwell to the second floor. They stopped at a door marked 202.
“My hand’s tender, Gus,” said Rhonda.
“What’d you do, drop your wallet on it?”
“Give it the cop knock, will you?”
Ramone made a fist and pounded his right hand on the door. He did this several times, waited, and did it again.
“What is it?” said an annoyed female on the other side of the door.
“Police,” said Ramone.
The door opened. A young woman wearing short shorts and a sleeveless pajama top stood before them. She was voluptuous and toned but had unhealthy skin and skin tone. She had a diamond stud in her nose and the remnants of glitter makeup on her face. Her eyes were swollen, and one cheek held the markings of a pillow’s edge.
“Shaylene Vaughn?” said Rhonda.
“Yes?”
“We’re with the Violent Crime Branch of MPD. This is my partner, Sergeant Ramone.”
“May we come in?” said Ramone. He had been holding his badge out for her to see. Shaylene nodded, and they went inside. The living room was empty except for a full ashtray on the carpet and a single plastic chair.
“Is Darcia Johnson in?” said Rhonda.
“She somewhere, but she’s not here.”
“Where?”
“She been stayin with her boyfriend.”
“Who is that and where does he live?”
“I don’t know, really.”
“You don’t know his name?”
“Not really.”
“Mind if we have a look around?” said Ramone.
“Why?”
“Looks like you just woke up,” said Rhonda. “Could be she slipped in while you were sleeping. Maybe she’s in the back or somethin and you aren’t aware of it.”